


An Asylum For Us All

by kowaiyoukai



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Arkham Asylum, Blood Imagery & Symbolism, Dark, Dreams, Gotham, M/M, Mental Disintegration, Mental Institutions, Psychoanalysis, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-20
Updated: 2009-06-20
Packaged: 2017-10-30 14:34:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kowaiyoukai/pseuds/kowaiyoukai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Batman was the only dream Bruce had ever wanted to have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Asylum For Us All

**Author's Note:**

> batmanjoker's 2008 Secret Santa Fic Challenge #3. Arkham Asylum, the following quote: "I dreamed that I floated at will in the great ether, and I saw this world floating also not far off, but diminished to the size of an apple. Then an angel took it in his hand and brought it to me and said, 'This thou must eat.' And I ate the world."  
> \--Ralph Waldo Emerson
> 
> I know this is horribly late. There are no good excuses, but the one I've got is that I'm stupid and signed up for challenges during my last semester of grad school. So, my stupidity is my excuse! Two more late challenges coming soon, hopefully. *crosses fingers* This fic is some seriously fucked up, bizarre shit. This story makes me feel wrong and blasphemous. Also, Bible quotes FTW! \o/

_"I will punish the world for its evil, the wicked for their sins. I will put an end to the arrogance of the haughty and will humble the pride of the ruthless." - Isaiah 13:11, NIV Edition_

 

He didn't dream.

That was the problem, they all said. If he had dreamed, if he was able to dream like everyone else could, then he wouldn't be here. He could move on to some unknown psychological state that was, apparently, where most people lived. This state was his goal. That was what they said. If he could reach that state, that normalcy, that status quo, then he could move on. He would be free of his childhood trauma—that was what they called it, witnessing his parents murdered, growing up alone and isolated from the world thanks to his fame, fortune, and family name: _childhood trauma_ , as if it had taken place only during childhood, as if every day since then he hadn't felt that emptiness, that space which nothing else could fill, as if it hadn't consumed him and defined his entire life—and able to move on.

That was what they wanted him to do—move on. He would be able to move on if he was treated, they said. He needed the therapy and the medication because nothing else was working, they said. It wasn't normal to want to protect people the way he did it. It wasn't normal to live his life to save others and ignore his own needs and desires. He should live for himself, they said. He had done enough for others. It was time for Batman to think about the one man he had never given enough consideration to—Bruce Wayne.

Bad enough they wanted him to be their warped ideal of normal. Even worse was their knowledge of his dual identity. And worst of all was their bumbling attempt to help him, as if he needed help. They wanted him to move on. That was why he was here, they said. He needed treatment, the kind of treatment only Arkham could give, the kind of treatment he had been influential in putting hundreds of others away to receive. Once he had the treatment, he could be normal. Once he had the treatment, he could be Bruce Wayne again. Not Batman.

They were conceited, complacent idiots with pieces of embossed paper hung in expensive frames on their walls. They had no idea what Batman stood for, what he represented to thousands of people who lived each day in fear. They hid behind their studies and their journals and their conferences, questioning morality but never living it. They were satisfied to debate on the nature of mankind, on whether or not sin was inherent or learned, but they had never lived with it as he had. They had never grasped it in their fists and dragged it out into the light, where everyone could know it and have a small amount of fear die from the knowing.

So they wanted him to dream, but their dreams were the dreams of children. They were naïve, foolish, and desperate to cling onto their certainty that people who stood up against evil must be inherently evil themselves. They believed that goodness was something wholly separate from evil, untainted and pure. Bruce had never known goodness in that way. He had seen goodness, in Gordon and Harvey, and had stood aside as it had made bad decisions and argued amongst itself what was right and what was simply desired. These people in here, with their clipboards and ridiculous smiles, they knew nothing of goodness. They were surrounded by the scum he himself had scraped off Gotham's streets. What could they know of goodness, and the men who desperately clung to it, and the people—person, Bruce's mind whispered, _person_ —who simply accepted goodness was, by its very nature, unattainable?

These people knew nothing of real life. Inside these walls, everything else didn't matter. They had created their own world in here, and they had the power to force everyone to submit to their will. They were intent on giving him new dreams, ones that mattered, ones that would make him as normal as they thought he should be. If they had asked him, Bruce would have told them how wrong they were at the very start. Batman was the only dream Bruce had ever wanted to have. He didn't need dreams or goodness or normal. He needed justice.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Arkham was more dismal on the inside than it was on the outside, which he had thought would be impossible. But there it was. Dingy walls covered with brick, gravel, cement, and scratches from knives, fingernails, and teeth. Floors so covered in grime and dust everyone left footprints when they walked. Tables and chairs made out of flimsy, crumbling plastic and chained to the floor, some on their sides, others with pieces missing. Guards posted at all the doors, holding stun guns, always aimed at the inmates, always ready for someone to make the attempt. The inmates themselves wore the same outfit, a bright orange one-piece with the words Arkham Asylum printed in huge bold black on the back and a string of identification numbers on the front. Oddly, some of the more notorious patients had their names inscribed below the number—as if, even when released, it was a known fact that they would be coming back, and so their names were sewn into the uniforms because each outfit was saved for the only owner it would ever have.

Bruce had been assigned a cell. They called them rooms, but they were small and padded and the door was thick and the small window had bars over it, and so it was a cell. He was currently in the main room where the patients gathered during the day to "relax"—although in Arkham, relaxing covered everything from lounging in a corner muttering about society's incompetent dictators to walking in tight circles and drooling uncontrollably. He recognized many of the patients, but none of them stood out in any specific way. Everyone was equally drugged, equally disheartened, and equally involved in whatever mental fight they were losing. As he looked around, he saw Scarecrow, Two-Face, Mr. Freeze, the Mad Hatter, the Riddler, and so many more. He saw everyone he had ever fought against and beaten, and it didn't matter to any of them because now he was stuck in here with them. There was no revenge, no harping on past offenses. There was only the room with its flickering, yellow light that buzzed too loudly, the shuffling of feet as everyone moved without purpose, and the guards watching them all, hands steady on their stun guns, waiting, always waiting. No, Bruce realized, no patient stood out in any way at all.

Except for one.

The Joker stood in front of Bruce, looking as though he had been standing there for a while even though Bruce hadn't noticed him. Bruce thought something would be said, that one of them would feel compelled to act in some way, but they simply stood there, watching each other. Bruce's eyes flicked to the guards by the door, both of whom were watching their lack of exchange with too much interest, hands tightening around their weapons. Bruce looked back at the Joker, but the other man hadn't moved, hadn't even glanced at the danger. The Joker stared at Bruce, perhaps unwilling to look away. His smile was there, but not, the scars making him as difficult to read as he always was.

Without warning, the Joker's scars stretched on either side of his face, splitting his cheeks open. Then he started dancing. But it wasn't dancing, it was shuffling, or moving his feet in precise gestures that meant nothing at all to anyone but him. A guard moved forward, grabbing his arm so abruptly Bruce flinched, and dragged the Joker away. But the Joker didn't flinch or struggle or even stop moving his feet, so used to being dragged around was he that it had simply ceased to matter. Bruce watched the Joker's feet move until he had been dragged around the corner, and then he looked down, suddenly knowing.

_Welcome_ was written there, on the floor, in semi-clean strokes lined with small piles of dirt on either side. Hastily drawn, having been danced instead of written out, there were small errors that were easily ignored. The two halves of the W were different sizes, the first e was lopsided, the l curved at the top, the c was drawn too close to the o so that they looked like the symbol for eternity, the m was pointed, and the last e had been near completion when the Joker had been dragged away, so that the end line was abruptly flat and ran off into the distance a few feet before its twin appeared, running directly alongside it, following the Joker's feet as they formed squiggles and dotted lines and criss-crossed each other down the corridor and around the corner.

That last line was a taunt, a dare. It screamed _follow me_. It was the White Rabbit, beckoning Batman to follow. Except he was already in Wonderland, had already been dragged kicking and screaming down the rabbit hole, and this was the only trail he had. If the Joker was to be his guide, with his grin that seemed to hover over everyone, hanging in midair without cause other than to incite mischief and confusion, Bruce knew he was already lost. The only path the Joker could lead him down was one he had no wish to take.

Yet as he stood there, surrounded by the faces of his enemies, he realized the Joker might also be the one ally he had. The Joker, for all his games, had been the constant in his life for years. Bruce could count on him, in an odd way, to be a compass. He could take his cues from the Joker's actions, could learn from how the Joker behaved, simply because he knew, instinctively and without reason, that neither of them wanted to be in here. They were both meant to be outside, showing the world how it should be, and so they had a common goal. Without doing more than looking at the message written in month-old grime, Bruce knew that much. He would follow the Joker's lead, no matter how disoriented and convoluted it became. It was the only way out—for both of them.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Bruce stood outside what must have been the Joker's cell. The trail stopped there, disappearing under the door as if it expected him to somehow magically follow. He paused for a moment before stepping forward, moving to the small barred window and inhaling softly, preparing to speak.

Immediately the Joker was there, one finger held against his lips, shaking and fervent in its message. Bruce noticed his lips more now than he had before, since the window cut off the edges of his mouth so that the scars were only slightly visible. Without his make-up on, the Joker looked almost normal. Bruce might have passed him on the street and never known it. He looked like he could be anyone at all.

The finger pointed at Bruce and then turned over, bent towards the Joker. Bruce didn't hesitate, stepping directly up to the door and staring through the small window. The Joker's hair was blond. He had forgotten that. It was always green in his mind. But Bruce thought he remembered the Joker's eyes fairly well—piercing, invasive, calculating—yet when he looked now they were dull, shine-less and half-lidded.

The fingers repeated the gesture, and Bruce could think of no way to get closer to the Joker. He eventually lifted his hand and stuck his fingers through the bars, for some reason unafraid. They had done something to him, with the drugs. Or maybe it was this place and the repressive, thick atmosphere. Or maybe it was simply that the Joker was there and Bruce had never been able to ignore him.

The Joker's finger pressed against Bruce's skin, lightly, while the Joker's other hand wrapped around his fingers, holding them still. Bruce couldn't have moved them anyway, even if he had wanted to. The bars were too close together, cutting off his circulation. He felt a prick in his middle finger and saw the Joker was using his fingernail to cut into his skin, carefully carving into the side of his finger. Bruce's first instinct was to pull away, but then he remembered where he was and it didn't seem to matter. Nothing mattered in here.

When the Joker released Bruce's hand, he pulled it back and inspected the short, cryptic message. He looked up at the Joker, who was staring at him through the bars, his eyes still dull but somehow a bit more alive than before. Bruce opened his mouth to speak, but the Joker shushed him once more, silently, his finger moving so fast Bruce took it as the warning it must have been. There was nothing else to say then, and no way of saying anything at all, so Bruce turned and left, heading back to his cell, occasionally glancing down at his middle finger to the two words written there, blood pooling along the edges of them in small droplets.

_they know_

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Minutes passed like days, days passed like seconds, and Bruce learned not to speak unless he was in session. He never remembered what sessions were like because always, directly after them, he took medication that had him walking around in a daze. It couldn't have mattered all that much because nothing had changed. He was still given the freedom to wander around the place, which the other inmates were not allowed to do. Occasionally, he saw the lines on the walls moving to form words or images that he knew could not be there. Sometimes he saw Alfred or Rachel standing in front of him, smiling and offering him the life he had once cherished. Those were the easy ones to spot. Those were what obviously could not be happening.

Others were harder. Was it really so impossible for Two-Face to start a conversation with him? He had known Harvey for a while, after all. It wasn't outside the realm of believable possibility. And when Scarecrow challenged him to a chess match—that could have happened. They were both intelligent and liked a challenge. And they were both bored enough that it no longer mattered who the challenger was.

So Bruce realized that he was living through events both real and fictitious, and in some way, this was what they had wanted. When they told him to dream, they hadn't specified what kind of dreams or when they should take place. He felt as if he had completed their one requirement and should now be free to go, but obviously they felt differently. So he stayed and saw Shakespearian sonnets turn into kanji and hieroglyphics on the walls. He talked with Two-Face, played chess with Scarecrow, stared out the tiny window of his cell, looked at the fading warning on his finger, and always wondered what the Joker had meant.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Bruce was standing in line for food. The Joker was in front of him, and he could see the man's sweaty, tangled hair curling around his neckline. Bruce wanted to reach out and grab it, twist his fingers into it until the Joker couldn't escape and then use that leverage to hurl him into the nearest wall. Every time he saw the Joker he wanted to hurt him, even now, even in here, that feeling never went away.

They got their food and sat down next to each other—the first time they both silently agreed to do so. The Joker never spoke in here. Everyone else spoke at least part of the time, but not the Joker. As always, he stood out, apart from the crowd and unapologetic about it. Bruce thought he would have some reservations about sitting so close to the Joker, close enough that their sides could touch if he moved just so, but he was strangely calm. This man had murdered enough innocent people that he would have no qualms about doing the same to Bruce, yet there wasn't even a shred of hesitation in him. Bruce didn't even feel a sliver of doubt about the unspoken agreement to be close enough to touch, close enough to kill, close enough to wrap fingers around a throat and snap a neck before the guards could do so much as clasp their trigger-happy hands around their stun guns.

It was the drugs. They were doing something to him, something strange, and he wasn't sure what it was but he knew it was changing him. It was making him into someone else—someone who wasn't Bruce Wayne, playboy millionaire and high-profile fuck-up, and maybe someone who wasn't Batman either. He was becoming someone who would follow a trail the Joker left for him, who would spend time with Two-Face and Scarecrow, who was willing to sit with the Joker and eat in silence.

The Joker held his fork up, prongs pointed at Bruce, and everything he was told him this was an attack, that he needed to defend. Then the Joker waved his fork in front of Bruce's face before angling it downwards to stab into a piece of the half-cooked meat on Bruce's plate. He lifted the piece up and ate it whole, opening his mouth widely and chewing with more noise than was necessary. He was taunting Bruce, seeing what he would do, wondering if there would be any kind of retribution at all. Outside, Bruce would have immediately reacted. Now, in here, he paused to consider.

Surely the Joker would grow bored of whatever game he was playing. Bruce knew he wasn't that interesting a person when he wasn't Batman. He had no real hobbies or topics of discussion outside of whatever fell under the categories of crime in Gotham, physical training, and morality. The Joker would see that. He would remember that the man he wanted to taunt was Batman, not Bruce Wayne, and that there was a line between the two that could not be ignored. What did it matter, to either of them, how Bruce Wayne reacted to the Joker's actions? It was Batman who mattered. Bruce Wayne was simply a stand-in.

So he picked up his own fork and reached over, spearing a piece of something unidentifiable off of the Joker's plate. He ate it quietly, politely, the way he had been taught to do since he could remember. His social status came out most while he was eating, that's what everyone told him. His manners were impeccable.

The Joker didn't pause, simply continued to eat off of Bruce's plate. So Bruce did the same, and while they finished each other's meals, they managed to brush each other's arms several times. Bruce thought it might have been intentional on the Joker's part, since every time he moved out of the way the Joker's arm followed. Strangely, it didn't bother him.

Everything was different in here. He had to remember that. Everyone changed inside Arkham.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

His tongue was quite amazing. Bruce had never really admired anyone's tongue before, but if he had to pick a tongue that truly stood-out from the rest, it would be the Joker's. He used it all the time, in all sorts of interesting ways, and Bruce found himself wondering how the Joker was so talented with his tongue even when he wasn't speaking. Neither of them ever spoke, even when the Joker knew Bruce was watching him and moved his tongue slower across his lips, just to be difficult.

It wasn't difficult watching him. It was the easiest thing in the world. Bruce wondered why he had never paid as much attention to how the Joker moved before, but then he remembered where he was. He had nothing to do all day long. His daily activities consisted of staring at whatever he could, and between the blank wall, the broken television, or the Joker—well, that wasn't really a choice at all.

He wasn't keeping track of time. He didn't know how much longer he would stay in here. He did know that the drugs were causing him to hallucinate more and more frequently. Bruce watched as Two-Face floated idly by, one side of his mouth shouting while the other whistled genially. Scarecrow was in the corner, hung up on a huge wooden stick with his arms hanging out to the sides, turning his head back and forth to beg nearby people for some water. A guard was holding a pez dispenser instead of a stun gun, and he was pointing it with such intensity that Bruce wanted to laugh. He didn't, though, because he knew it really was a stun gun, no matter what his senses told him.

Knowing reality was warping around him and hoping that the Joker could be trusted— _that_ was difficult. It would be impossible for Batman, who saw things in black and white. Luckily enough, now he was Bruce Wayne, who saw things in shades of green, and when he looked around he knew with absolute certainty that he could buy the entire building for less than he'd usually spend on a night out. He might, once he was out. He'd like to have some say over how the inmates were treated. Money was able to do more in less time than Batman ever could.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Of all the places in Arkham to waste time, Bruce liked his cell the most. There, he could be sure that everything he saw wasn't real because he was alone with no furnishings. Anything else, anything that appeared with him inside the cell, must be an illusion.

The Joker was outside his door, waiting with uncharacteristic patience. Then again, since the Joker had nothing to do either, it made sense. Bruce waited a few minutes, just to make sure he was really there. When the Joker didn't act particularly out of the ordinary, Bruce accepted he might actually be there and got up, walked over to the cell door, and looked out of the small window.

Almost immediately, the Joker's fingers came through the bars, wriggling the tiniest bit. Bruce reached out and grabbed them. They stilled, and suddenly Bruce got the oddest sensation the Joker was trying to tell him something. There was no particular reason behind it. It struck him, without warning, that the Joker had been trying to tell him something this whole time. Bruce squeezed his fingers, attempting to get across his knowledge and curiosity about the message. Then he put his own finger through the bars, allowing the Joker the access he needed. A few minutes later, Bruce was looking at the new statement on his finger, a miniscule amount of blood seeping out of the letters.

_were alone_

He didn't understand. Were alone? Was it a question? _Were you alone?_ Or was it a statement? _We're alone_. It could have also been a type of confession. _You and I were alone._ He didn't know what it meant and before he could ask the Joker had gone. Bruce thought he had been a hallucination, but the letters were still on his finger, and he could taste the blood when he brought it to his lips. So it was real, and the Joker was trying to say something.

Eventually, Bruce came to the conclusion that it didn't matter what his message was. Arkham was a different sort of world than the one he was used to living in. It was Never Never Land—a place made up of fantasy that masqueraded as reality, a place filled with people who pretended to be who they weren't. Maybe the Joker knew the way around, maybe he had the fairy dust that Bruce needed to navigate these halls, but without speaking there was no way to be sure.

Bruce had a feeling he knew why the Joker wouldn't talk. A mixture of paranoia and rationality, most likely. There were cameras everywhere, recording everyone's movements all of the time, and Bruce had the vague impression that the Joker had developed some kind of system of living in Arkham where he was able to avoid detection. But it didn't matter. Bruce was only staying here until he dreamed, and with each hallucination he got closer and closer to the dream the drugs were forcing him to have. It was enough to make him _want_ to hallucinate. It was the key to getting out. Bruce wanted, more than anything, to want to get out.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was the closest to a dream Bruce had gotten, but it wasn't a dream. It was an illusion, a hallucination, like the rest of them. The Joker spoke, and that was how Bruce knew it wasn't happening. If he had never spoken, he would have thought it was real, even with its dream-like qualities. Everything was so vivid. Everything stood out.

If you created me, then you must know. The Joker smiled, but he was always smiling and Bruce had reached a point where he couldn't tell the curve of his lips apart from the torn skin that marred them. He was continuing a conversation Bruce didn't remember starting, but for some reason he still understood. My thoughts. You must know everything I'm thinking.

I do. He wasn't sure that he did, but he agreed with the Joker's unspoken logic. A creator would know everything about his creations. The fact that he agreed with any statement the Joker made, and labeled it as logical, was also expected. All creations came from somewhere within the creator. Bruce had created the Joker, out of whim or necessity or curiosity, and thus he was responsible for all of the chaos and carnage the Joker had created. All of that had come from somewhere inside himself. I am a monster.

True. The Joker's mouth widened, the scars splitting, until they began to bleed. The blood was red, a dark red, the same red Bruce had seen on himself after every time they had fought. Bruce had known his blood would be red, but there was a part of him, a small convincing part, that believed the Joker might have found a way to dye it another color. Green or purple, probably, and that would have been the cleverest joke he could have pulled—convincing everyone he was human.

I created a monster. The blood flowed out of the corners of the Joker's mouth, much too quickly for Bruce to stop. He wanted to try. He strode forward, grasped the Joker's neck, dragged him closer, and then he sucked on the corner of the Joker's mouth, over the blood and ridged skin that continued to rip open even as Bruce licked it shut.

But you didn't create me. It was too much—the blood was ankle-deep now, staining their feet red. Bruce felt the wetness, felt the warmth seep into his shoes and pants. He knew it was impossible. It was a hallucination. But his mouth was still next to the Joker's, the corners of their lips touching, and the Joker's blood was in his mouth, making him gasp and gurgle and swallow, convulsively.

You just said I did. Bruce felt the Joker pulling away, except that it was the rising blood which was separating them. He felt his own feet give way, sliding, unable to find purchase. If the blood overtook him, if he was defeated here, all that he had been through to this point would be a waste.

I lied. Blood rose around the Joker, moving up and up, surrounding them both until it had reached their shoulders. It moved faster as well, becoming a macabre river that threatened to drown them in what should have given them life.

I knew you lied. Bruce struggled against the tide, pushing his arms as fast and far as they would go, forcing himself to be just that much stronger. He was Batman. No force of nature could overtake him since he was a force of nature himself. He would conquer this enemy as he had conquered all others.

Then you do know my thoughts. The Joker had disappeared from his vision, then reappeared, then disappeared once more. His head was constantly re-surfacing before being dragged down again. Bruce wanted to help him, that's what he did after all, but then he realized he wasn't Batman. He hadn't been Batman for some time, and now that he knew it, his energy started to drain away. He was Bruce Wayne, millionaire, businessman, and maybe he wasn't even that. Maybe he was someone else, some unnamed person who pretended to be both Batman and Bruce and who was really just a child who wanted someone to hold onto when blood was gushing out of people he needed to protect.

No. Bruce felt himself drowning, felt the blood wash over him, covering him, trapping him. It was too heavy to move through—thick and hot. He couldn't breathe but he tried anyway, inhaling the blood because there was no oxygen to be found.

The Joker laughed as blood poured relentlessly out of his mouth, circling Bruce, surrounding him, but it no longer mattered. There wasn't an escape. No?

The blood was a part of Bruce, running over his skin and through his veins as surely as his own. It formed him, gave him life, and when he couldn't breathe any longer, he stopped trying to. I just know you.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When Bruce finally dreamed, he saw himself drifting through space, empty and vast with not even one star to guide his way. Everywhere he turned was darkness. There was no correct direction to move forward in, and standing still caused the darkness to engulf his body entirely. So Bruce continued to move, in any direction he could, uncaring if it was up or down or if he was simply moving a gigantic circle. There was no way to measure time or distance, and the darkness moved faster than he could. Bruce grew tired, his arms heavy and leaden, his legs dangling lifelessly.

A small speck of light caught his attention. He began moving towards it and soon found that it was Earth, or else a planet very like it. Blue and green and white covered the surface, which was strikingly similar to Earth. However, as Bruce moved closer, he realized it could not possibly be the same planet as the one he called home because this planet was miniscule. No bigger than an apple, it slowly rotated on a tilted axis, half of it shaded and half of it in sunlight. Bruce realized the rotation was meant to even the world out. Both darkness and light needed to coexist at the same time for the planet to continue its existence. If one overtook the other, the planet would freefall as Bruce had, tumbling through nothingness, unable to find a way to move forward.

When Bruce was a mere arm's length away from the planet, blinding light showered over him, forcing him to shut his eyes and move his hands to block the source. When the light began to dim, Bruce let his hands drop, opened his eyes, and saw a man standing in front of him. The man was perfect in every way—unmarked by time or sorrow, with wings that spread out behind him so far Bruce couldn't see their ends. The light emanated from his body, shining through his skin as though he was translucent, and Bruce had a vague sense that this was someone he knew and could trust although the man was completely unrecognizable.

It was only then that Bruce realized the planet was shifting, beginning to fall off its axis to be forever lost in the darkness. Bruce began to reach out, but then man's hands were already there, cradling the planet as if it were a priceless treasure. The planet basked completely in the man's light, and all of the darkness that had been there before was wiped away in an instant.

Bruce wanted to be a part of that light. He wanted to escape the darkness that surrounded him constantly, that gnawed on the edges of his body until he felt mourning for something unknown. His already outstretched arm reached out until he was able to place the tip of one finger against the man's hand.

The man smiled and moved his hands in front of Bruce, offering him the world. "This thou must eat." His voice was soothing, rich, melodic, and Bruce found himself about to move his hand to take the offering. But the light from the man seemed to be slowly decreasing, and Bruce noticed the darkness around his own body was slowly evaporating. Bruce looked at the fingertip that was touching the man and saw that the light which had been coming from the man's body was being slowly pulled into Bruce, filling him up and leaving the other man growing dark.

"This thou must eat." The man's voice seemed a bit louder, a little harsher. Bruce looked at him and began to notice specific features—blonde hair, pale skin, and dark, unreadable eyes. He was becoming clearer as the light dimmed, yet the features that were being revealed were still unfamiliar to Bruce. His hands remained were they were, holding out the planet, and Bruce was uncertain about why he should eat the world.

When the light was almost entirely gone, Bruce felt he could see clearly. The world was covered in darkness now, in the same darkness that covered the man in front of him, and the only way to keep the world safe would be to hold it close, to lock it away inside of himself and protect it from everything that could cause it harm. Bruce looked at the man, who still held onto a few last vestiges of light, who was still a mystery.

"This thou must eat." The man's voice was cracked, harsh and deep, and every syllable grated on Bruce's ears. The darkness threatened to overtake both the man and the world, so Bruce waited until the light had completely filled him, until the light had completely abandoned the man, and then he gently lifted the planet out of the man's hands.

Bruce swallowed the world whole, making sure not to damage it with his teeth. It tasted like nothing. It settled in his gut like a weight, a heavy chain he had chosen to carry with him for his entire life. He could never remove it or take back his decision, and the thought had him wondering if he had made the right choice.

The man in front of Bruce began to move away, and Bruce quickly looked up to find a grin splitting the man's face open, long wounds on either side of his mouth opening up and the darkness swallowed the man in front of him whole.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"What is an apple?"

"It's a fruit."

"Yes, of course. What I mean to say is, what does an apple _represent_ to you? Why do _you_ think you dreamed of one?"

"… Aren't you supposed to tell me that?"

"I'm just here to help you figure it out."

"Ah."

"So… what does it mean?"

"I don't know."

"Well, what do you think of when you think of an apple?"

"It's food. You eat it to survive."

"Good. What else?"

"It's red. Like…"

"Like what?"

"Like the color."

"You were going to say blood, weren't you? Like blood?"

"No. I was going to say it's red like roses and cherry candy."

"We've talked about you getting that tone before."

"And lips. Red, red lips."

"Were you going to say blood?"

"… Yes."

"You've seen a lot of blood, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"As Batman?"

"As a person. Everyone sees blood. Not just Batman."

"That's true. But you see more of it than most."

"Hm."

"So why do you think you ate the apple?"

"Maybe I was hungry."

"Maybe you wanted to live."

"… Hm."

"That's what you said, isn't it? That eating an apple will allow you to survive."

"But it wasn't just an apple."

"No, it wasn't."

"It was the world."

"What do you think about that?"

"About what?"

"About the apple. Or the world. Or eating them. What are you thinking right now?"

"I'm thinking I don't want to be here anymore."

"…I meant about your dream."

"I know what you meant."

"Then why did you answer that way?"

"I'm tired of answering your questions."

"There's still a few minutes before your session is finished."

"I don't care."

"You know this is your last session?"

"I know."

"They're letting you out today."

"I said I know."

"But if you don't cooperate, well, I might have reason to protest your release."

"…Fine. What's your question?"

"Your psych profile says you're very intelligent, knowledgeable in many areas."

"Is that a question?"

"You know about the Garden of Eden?"

"Is _that_ your question?"

"The man holding the apple, or the world, however you'd like to see it. He first appeared bathed in light, but eventually he was completely in shadows. Is there a connection?"

"You mean was the man the snake?"

"Yes, that's what I mean."

"It fits. He was the highest of all the angels before he fell."

"True."

"But I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"That would make me Eve."

"Perhaps. That's one way of looking at it."

"I still don't think so."

"No?"

"No."

"Who do you think he was then?"

"A fallen angel."

"Isn't the snake in the story a fallen angel?"

"It's different. He's not challenging God. He's offering the world."

"Then are you God?"

"No."

"God is all-powerful. Many people think Batman is, too."

"I don't believe in God."

"You don't?"

"Do you?"

"What I believe doesn't matter."

"Hm."

"Who is he offering the world to?"

"Me."

"Why?"

"Who knows? He's an angel. They do things like that."

"You just said he was a fallen angel."

"He fell because of me."

"I don't understand."

"I took his light."

"So you caused him to become fallen?"

"Probably."

"How do you know that?"

"Without me, there would have been no one to offer the world to. There would have been nobody there to take it."

"Or the apple."

"Or the apple."

"So did you like it?"

"What?"

"Your dream. Did you enjoy it?"

"I don't know."

"It's what we've worked towards."

"Does that mean I have to like it?"

"No. But do you?"

"Maybe. I don't know. Maybe."

"You should dream more now."

"Hm."

"It's a good thing. Everyone needs to dream."

"Yes. Everyone needs a dream."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

There was something within these walls that didn't exist anywhere else. Thoughts were floating in and out of Bruce's mind that had never struck him before. He was suddenly aware of the pressure of oxygen against his flesh, the heaviness of his eyelids pressing against each other each time he blinked, the dull rhythm of his heart beating against his rib cage. He was suddenly aware of the way the Joker looked at him, studied him, calculating but more than that. He knew the Joker had always been aware of the oxygen against Bruce's flesh and the flutter of his eyelids and the constant pounding of his heart. It was only now that Bruce realized what those looks meant, what exactly they were studying, and it was only now that he understood what the Joker saw when he viewed the world and the Batman who stood as guardian over it.

Bruce had nothing when he came in and he had nothing when he left. His hands flexed as though he should be holding something, as though something was missing, but he knew everything was about to be as it should be. He understood the Joker's perspective, but some things couldn't be changed. Some things were never meant to happen.

The front door opened for him, and as Bruce stepped out onto the porch for the first time in a month, he heard a voice that made his blood run.

"We can li-vuh in _here_ , togetheeer." The Joker's tone cut across him like shards of ice, leaving a freezing trail that had Bruce shivering. He turned to look at the Joker, who was standing at the threshold, unwilling or unable to move forward. "This _is_ where we belon-guh."

Bruce swallowed, watching as the Joker's eyes trailed the movement of his throat. "Not me," he stated, voice deep and sure. "I'll never belong here."

"You've always _belonged_ here," the Joker replied, letting his tongue dart across his lips. "You jus-tuh _don't_ know it."

"I have to leave," Bruce said, confidently. "Gotham needs me."

The Joker laughed, loud and covering too many notes to follow. " _Gotham_ needs more than eve-nuh you can _give_." His laughter cut off, abruptly. "I _nee-duh_ you more than those id _iots_ do." The Joker reached out, letting his hand cross the doorway to rest on Bruce's chest. "I can't _stay_ in here alone. They'll ge-tuh to _me_."

The solution was so simple Bruce didn't understand why he had to say it. "So don't stay."

The Joker was shaking his head before Bruce had finished his sentence. " _Where_ woul-duh I go?"

A simple solution. Again. "You know where I live." Bruce raised an eyebrow in defiant acceptance. " _Everyone_ knows where I live, now."

"I don't belong _out_ there." It was stated bluntly, as though the Joker had known this for a while and had stopped trying to deny the inherent truth.

There was only one answer Bruce could give, and it was the truth. "I'm still going."

The Joker let his hand fall. It dangled limply by his side for a moment before he shoved it into his pocket. "I'll get ou-tuh soon."

"I know." They both knew it was a promise.

That was it, then. The Joker turned around and went back inside, moving as if he owned the place, as if everyone inside was simply a guest of his, staying there because he allowed it. Bruce turned around and went back outside, moving with a steady stride. He was Bruce Wayne, millionaire and owner of half the city. He was Batman, nightmare to everyone who opposed him and protector of everyone who asked. There was no need to rush. The world might not have come to an end with his incarceration, but now that he was free he could feel a tremor take over, slowly building through the inhabitants of Gotham. Even with his identity known, he was still Batman. Gotham was his, its citizens—his subjects. They would listen to him now as they never had before, now that they knew he was as powerful outside the suit as in it.

And when the Joker escaped, as he must, Bruce would deal with that accordingly. All things would be dealt with as they should, now that he was free.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When they let him out, declaring him cured, Bruce realized what they hadn't wanted to say. The disease wasn't in Gotham—it _was_ Gotham. It was in each and every soul who trudged through Gotham's streets, despairing of living yet another day surrounded by the people who were mirror images of themselves. Arkham was the heart of Gotham in many ways. Those who couldn't see that were still looking at the illusion they had made for themselves. Arkham wasn't a Wonderland with its riddle-crazed men in suits and cards who painted themselves different colors every day to suit the whims of a dictator or a Never Never Land with its children who dressed up like adults and adults who yearned for childhood or a Garden of Eden with its temptation and the knowledge that one person could change the entire world. Gotham was.

When they let him out, Bruce realized there was no treatment for Gotham, no therapy that would cure its wounds. There was only Batman, and the sin that lived in the hearts of each citizen, burrowed deep within, hiding under pop music and business deals and electronic toys. Each person was equally to blame, and when Bruce looked at Gotham with clear eyes, he saw an entire city that needed justice. An entire city of criminals.

Arkham was the asylum it claimed to be. Gotham was the madhouse.

 

_"So justice is far from us, and righteousness does not reach us. We look for light, but all is darkness; for brightness, but we walk in deep shadows." - Isaiah 59:9, NIV Edition_

 

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> So perhaps now you can understand why it took me SIX FUCKING MONTHS to half-way sort this out and write it down. And Bats and J kept on changing what they wanted to do. It was simply awful. Also, a funny story happened while writing this fic. I described this idea (in incredibly vague, nebulous terms) to my non-fandom friend, who was like, "I thought they were supposed to be, like, in love or something?" and so I was like, "LOL, sometimes I forget you're not in fandom. Batman and Joker in love is not like other people in love. It's more like crazy violent I love you so I'm going to cut you and try to kill you because of the love. See?" She didn't really get it, just sort of nodded a bit and changed the subject. LMAO, non-fandom people are silly. XD


End file.
